


Worlds Apart

by stepOnMeZenos



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Backstory, Bad Parent Varis zos Galvus, Character Study, Child Abuse, Child Zenos yae Galvus, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Pre-Canon, Regula van Hydrus POV, Suicidal Thoughts, Varis zos Galvus POV, Zenos yae Galvus Backstory, Zenos yae Galvus POV, Zenos yae Galvus-typical Monologues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 01:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17757029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepOnMeZenos/pseuds/stepOnMeZenos
Summary: A headcanon-heavy take on Zenos' childhood.





	Worlds Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Quick, let's post backstory before 4.5 and/or Shadowbringers invalidates it again and I have to square it with canon. 
> 
> Many thanks to Oneironym, who not only helped me edit but also patiently endured my constant talking about this story and the endless complaints about being stuck _again_.
> 
> Because boy did I get stuck.
> 
> A lot.
> 
> Now let's bet on how many ways this will turn out inaccurate!

Zenos yae Galvus, prince of Garlemald, in line to the Imperial throne, sits at the banquet and picks at his food. 

Regula discreetly watches him across the table. Zenos isn't very tall for a twelve year old Garlean, and is plainly sitting on a specially manufactured chair to make it less obvious. It makes him look to be of above average height, but his feet can't possibly touch the ground under the table. Even so, his posture is impeccable; back straight and parallel to the back of the chair, no slumping or hunching over at all. 

It takes a skilled eye to see that he's not eating very much either. His plate appears to be emptying at a reasonable pace, but upon closer examination, one can tell he's just rearranging his food to look like that until the servants come to take it away in preparation of the next course. Regula isn't even certain how he does it. 

Varis is clearly doing an exemplary job raising his son, who is displaying not only impeccable manners, but also talent in deceiving others, which is ever a useful skill in the snake pit known as Garlean politics. Not that Regula ever doubted his friend's parenting. He's met the child on numerous occasion, and nary has he seen one as bright and skilled as him. He excels at his studies, is far ahead of his peers in swordplay and while he's not old enough to lead troops of his own, Varis has shown him the strategies he's suggested when presented with mock battle scenarios. There are tribunii in Regula's legion that he wishes were that skilled at tactics. Zenos will go far, one day.

And yet, Regula can't help but feel concerned when he looks at him now, answering a question from whichever diplomat is seated next to him with all the aplomb of a Garlean royal, and none of the spirit a twelve year old should be displaying. His eyes have a dull, bored look to them, but it's not the boredom of a child stuck between adults who wants to go play. He's not fidgeting or casting longing glances towards the exit. He hasn't even stopped paying attention to the political conversations around him that even Regula, a legatus of thirty years, finds uninteresting. 

He simply sits and picks at his food. 

Regula thinks back to the bright-eyed toddler that he'd met nearly a decade ago, laughing and waving about with a toy sword, and worries.

 

 

“What is it that you wanted to speak to me about, Legatus?“ Zenos asks. They're sitting in one of the royal palace's many salons. Regula is familiar with this one; Varis favours it for reasons he never bothered asking about, and so they meet here quite frequently. Today, however, it's only Zenos and him sitting in the plush chairs. The servants have brought tea and cookies and set the magitek heating to a comfortable level, and then left at Regula's behest. He does not enjoy mincing his words for fear of what gossip will come from it. 

One look at Zenos confirms that whatever ails him hasn't gotten any better. A few months have passed since the banquet, but the disturbingly hollow look in his eyes is still present, now accompanied by faint dark circles. He ignores the cookies, even though Regula specifically asked for such a variety that there has to be _something_ on that plate that Zenos enjoys. There is confectionery all the way from Doma and even Eorzea as well as the more familiar Garlean treats. No child would be able to resist. Zenos, it appears, hasn't regained his appetite at all. 

“I was...“ Regula hesitates. He's not good with children, never has been. He counts himself fortunate not to have any himself, for he knows he would not be a good father to them, but he's spent enough time with his nieces and nephews to be aware of how lacking he is in this regard. Certainly, he plays with them on the rare occasion that he has time to visit his extended family, but he finds it hard to speak to them. He is at heart a military man, and it's next to impossible for him to put aside the habits he has built through and for his work: Barking orders, making demands, leading others. 'Tis not how children should be treated. Not at such a young age. 

He's considered at length what he wants to ask Zenos and what he wants to tell him before coming to the palace, but now that he's facing him, he finds the words he prepared woefully insufficient. His fingers tap on the table of their own accord and wills them to stop. A bad habit born from a lifetime of playing music, that. His mother used to scold him for it. 

“I have further lessons to attend today,“ Zenos says when the silence between them stretches uncomfortably. “Father wishes for me to review what caused the Eorzean campaign to suffer such a drastic defeat at Silvertear Lake.“

“I understand. I would not wish to waste your time.“ Regula tries to pull himself together. Words aren't his strength, but nothing about this conversation is so difficult as to excuse his behaviour. He's a legatus. A simple conversation with a child is well within his means, even if he _is_ his best friend's son. “I've been concerned about you, Prince Zenos.“ 

Zenos' eyebrows rise up ever so slightly. “I've not fallen behind on my studies. You have nothing to be worried about.“ 

“I don't doubt it. Your father often speaks of your achievements to me. But that isn't what I meant. You seem… unwell.“

Zenos reaches for his cup of tea. It's a gesture that's hardly out of place or surprising, but Regula hasn't failed to notice that this is the first time he's shown any interest in it at all. He's buying time to find a way to respond, Regula is sure of it, especially when he takes a sip that's perhaps just a little bit too long to be comfortable. 

Finally, he sets the cup down again. “I'm perfectly fine. You may speak to my chirurgeon for reassurance.“ 

“May I speak freely?“

Zenos nods. 

“I believe you when you say you're not ill, though don't think I haven't noticed your lack of appetite, or that I will hesitate to speak to your father if you keep going like that. “ Regula watches Zenos with keen eyes. There's the slight twitch of a suppressed flinch. Zenos has remarkable self-control, but he can't hide everything. Not at such a young age. “If, that is, Varis doesn't already know. But no, your physical health is not what brought me here today. When is the last time you've had the time to do something you truly enjoy?“

There's a slight pause as Zenos sips from his tea again. Then, finally, he responds: “I don't understand.“

Regula sighs. “I know that look in your eyes, and I mislike it. I've seen it on men I knew. Good men, who worked themselves to the brink and beyond in the line of duty. 'Tis not the fate I want for you.“ 

“But… I'm fine,“ Zenos says. His face looks as impassive as ever, but a hint of bewilderment colours his voice. “Keeping up with my lessons is no effort at all. I'm not being worked hard at all.“

“I don't doubt it, Zenos. But there's more to living than doing well in your studies.“ Regula leans forward. “We who are called to lead live a harsh life. 'Tis rewarding, but it also takes a toll on us. If you dedicate your entire existence to duty, it will consume you.“ 

Zenos doesn't respond. Regula waits patiently and forces his fingers to stay still, still still, even though all he wants is move them, to lose himself in the music as they dance over his flute. It's his comfort in the face of duty—it's what keeps him sane when everything feels too much. 

It's the sort of thing Zenos plainly doesn't find the time for, and that will push him over the edge sooner or later. 

“You don't have to talk to me about this if you don't want to. Putting additional pressure on you is the last thing I came here for. But please consider what I said. Whatever it is that you like doing in your spare time—“ and here Regula realises he does not, in fact, know what that is. He spends so much time travelling all over Ilsabard and Othard that he doesn't know his best friend's eldest son's favourite pastimes. But that's not something he can dwell on now. He continues, “Whatever it is, please give yourself the time to do it more often.“

Zenos leans back in his chair and fixes his gaze on nothing in particular on the table. Regula hopes that he's thinking about his words and will find truth in them. If a simple conversation is all it took to convince Zenos, then he'll be glad to have taken time out of his schedule to have it. 

“...will that be all, then?“

Regula suppresses another sigh. That's not a very promising answer, but maybe Zenos simply needs time to mull it over. Maybe he will remember his words when he needs them. 

Zenos all but dashes out of the room with the excuse of having to attend his next lesson when he affirms that that was all. 

 

 

The next time Regula sees Zenos, he methodically eats everything on his plate, but the way his brows furrow makes it clear he's not enjoying any of it. 

 

 

“What are you insinuating?“ Varis asks as he refills his cup. Finest sake from Doma, a drink fit for a Garlean royal. Regula prefers sticking to native brews himself. Once a country bumpkin, always a country bumpkin.

“Nothing,“ Regula says. “But surely you noticed he's not doing well.“

They're sitting in Varis' private study, where he's busy signing paperwork even now. Regula would have liked his undivided attention, but he's leaving again on the morrow, and he doesn't want to wait to talk about Zenos any longer. 

Varis rubs the bridge of his nose before writing another neat signature on another piece of paper. His pen scratching is the only sound filling the room for a while. 

“I'm… aware, yes,“ he finally says. “I daresay more than you are, as I see him nearly every day. He's been declining for a while now, though he continues to excel at his duties, at least.“ 

Regula nods. That fits with what he's noticed as well. It's good that Zenos isn't so far gone that he can't perform properly any longer, though something needs to be done if they are to prevent that in the long run. 

When he voices that thought, Varis purses his lips and busies himself with some paper as he speaks. “I've spoken to him about it on several occasions. He did not give a clear answer when asked what it is that's ailing him, or any answer at all, really. He dodged my question and feigned ignorance.“

Regula raises an eyebrow. Is Varis really not seeing it?

“I can tell you have something to say on this. Go on.“ 

“Bluntly: He's working too much and too hard,“ Regula says. The signs are all there; the lack of appetite, the listlessness, the utter lack of joy. It's so obvious, and yet Varis appears to be blind to it. “I've seen it before, in men so dedicated to their duties they forget to live. I don't want to see your son turn out like that.“ 

Varis looks up from his work. “Too _much_? He hardly has to do anything at all! He excels at everything he touches with no effort at all, and he has the evenings off regardless. His schedule is more relaxed than mine was at his age. Nor is he without pastimes. Following your example, I encouraged him to pick up an instrument and his caretakers report that he's practicing in his spare time rather frequently.“ 

Regula hums to himself. So it's not that Zenos is overworked; not that he wanted to believe that his friend would do that to his child in the first place, but it's good to have confirmation that he's found something he enjoys doing and has the time for it. But then what is the cause? 

“So, since Zenos was of no help, I called a chirurgeon to examine him,“ Varis continues. “To see if he's fallen ill with something, but she hasn't found anything either. Nor have his teachers been able to shed any light on the matter. It's certainly not that he's wanting for anything. I only hire the very best of tutors for him, only supply him with the highest quality goods and materials, only invite the most skilled Garlean children to study and spar with him, so that he may find a companion...“

This is true, Regula knows that firsthand. One of his nephews was selected about a year ago, though he failed to bond with Zenos, whom he has described as “weird“ to Regula once. Regula chastised him for speaking ill of his prince, of course, but now he wishes he would have asked for details. 

“Then I considered whether he was reacting badly to something in his meals, as he's been eating less lately...“ 

“I noticed.“

“You did, didn't you?“ Varis sighs. “He denied that as well, and when pressed only said that he didn't 'feel' like eating. I've admonished him repeatedly, but it hardly helps any in the long run.“ He puts down his work and looks at Regula. “I want him to do well, I truly do. If there is anything I could do to make it better I would, but…“ 

“We can figure this out together, Varis.“ Just like they've figured out everything else in this snakepit of a capital. Varis placed his trust in him when he arranged for his promotion to where he is today. Regula means to repay him for it. 

Varis straightens up in his chair and nods. “Certainly. If, that is, it isn't simply childish fancy that he'll grow out of. Either way, you're right; this is hardly something that we can't handle.“

As always, an offer of support is all Varis needs on the rare occasion he feels insecure. In fact, knowing him, he'll come up with a solution all on his own, with no input from Regula needed at all. Varis is better equipped to handle his son's problem than anyone else anyroad. 

Regula resolves to leave it to him for now. 

 

 

Varis remains in his office long after Regula has left, feigning more work as an excuse, and long after that stopped being believable. The knowledge that he hasn't been entirely truthful with his friend weighs on his mind. Part of him wishes he had been, but there's nothing to be done about it now. Regula will depart from the capital ere the sun rises again. There isn't the time to arrange another meeting.

Zenos and his other children will have gone to bed by now as well (if, that is, he hasn't stopped sleeping as well; it would not surprise Varis at this point). It spares him the awkwardness of yet another supposed family dinner during which he doesn't know what to say to his children, and the only sound that fills the room is the clinking of cutlery on plates while none of them look at each other. 

And that is the truth he hides from Regula and everyone else. He doesn't know what to do with his children. From the moment the midwife handed him the screaming, squirming bundle that he would name Zenos yae Galvus a short hour later, he hasn't had the faintest idea. The warm weight in his arms has left him confused rather than fulfilled. Zenos learning how to communicate has hardly improved matters, and neither have the births of his other children.

Oh, he's tried to be a father to them, to raise them right and well, and part of him wants to say he succeeded; is his firstborn not heralded as a great mind even now? Has he not succeeded at everything he's ever tackled? Surely nobody else would doubt his qualifications, not even if they knew how much of the work he pawns off to nannies. As a member of the royal family his duties keep him busy, they would say, and they wouldn't be wrong.

They wouldn't be right either. 

He doesn't like spending time with his children and would not have volunteered to do it more than he has to regardless of his status. Thankfully they've quickly become self-sufficient and stopped bothering him for inane reasons. He knows they're in good hands, and it's hardly that different from his own childhood, but he can't avoid every bit of contact and during those times, when he's face to face with them, the feeling of being insufficient sometimes rises in him. And it's only gotten worse when whatever is going on with Zenos started. 

It's his duty as Garlean royalty to have heirs, and he would not have been allowed to say no when his grandfather—His Radiance arranged his marriage. Sometimes, however, he wishes that he could have. 

But that's idle whimsy and there's no point in thinking about it. Nor is there a point to sitting in his office at this hour and wonder what to do about his wayward son. Perhaps Regula will be able to think of something, or he himself will have another idea, but it won't be sparked by staring at his wall for untold hours. It's past time he retired, and so he rises from his desk, engages the magitek lock as he leaves his office and makes his way towards his quarters. The royal palace is vast, and the royal family is housed in the luxurious east quarter, in which common rabble is not permitted. It's crucial that important messages reach them without being impeded, and so it's necessary that their work offices are located elsewhere. Varis has never been one to complain about a brisk walk; it's a welcome change from sitting at a desk, but it does, unfortunately, mean that one is more likely to run into unwanted interlopers on the way. 

Sestria oen Laevinus, the veteran soldier Varis hired to teach his son how to use the sword, hurries towards him from across the corridor. He makes sure not to show any outwards signs, but inwardly, he sighs. He does not want to hear about Zenos' latest accomplishments right now. 

Oen Lavinus' face, however, does not display the usual beaming pride she feels towards her student. Instead, she looks worried, almost harried, and her fiddling with her hair betrays her anxiety. A skilled fighter she may be, but her lack of self-control outside of the battlefield has ever barred her from ascending further through the ranks. 

Varis stops and waits for her to tell him what happened. 

“My Lord, there—there was an incident during Master Zenos' training, he—“

Varis' gaze slips down to her hand, which is covered in blood. Now that he's looking, he can see it staining her clothes as well. “Explain yourself.“ 

Oen Laevinus pales at his tone and hurriedly continues, “Master Zenos is perfectly fine, but Valens bas Aquorus, his training partner for the day… we brought him to the chirurgeons and they say he'll live but...“ 

“Start from the beginning,“ Varis says. Now that he knows his son hasn't come to any harm, there's no need to rush anymore. He doesn't exactly want to hear about this either, but it's not something he can simply ignore. He was, after all, the one who arranged that particular sparring match. 

“As you command.“ Oen Laevinus takes a moment to collect herself, then relays in a calmer manner how the training exercise started like any other; two combatants, armed and armored, with the goal to disarm each other. Zenos is no stranger to it. He's moved on to real swords over a year ago. This exercise in particular, however, took a turn for the worse when Zenos executed an attack that oen Laevinus swears he didn't learn from her, which not only wrenched the sword from bas Aquorus' hands, but also drove Zenos' own blade deep into his armor's joint gap. 

“...and the chirurgeons say his arm might never be the same again.“ 

“A training accident, then,“ Varis says. “I will of course compensate the Aquorus family accordingly, but—“

“'Twas no accident, my Lord.“ Oen Laevinus bites down on her lip. “I saw it all. Master Zenos aimed for that gap. 'Twas not an angle he would have come from by accident.“ 

Varis doesn't groan. He doesn't show that kind of weakness in public, much as he wishes he could in moments like these. Instead, he turns away from oen Laevinus to continue towards his quarters, which are, of course, located right next to Zenos'. “I'll speak to him. You are dismissed. And wash off that blood, ere you spread any rumours.“ 

“Y-yes, my Lord!“

He leaves her where she stands and strides on to where he knows he will find Zenos. When not otherwise occupied, his son rarely leaves his rooms. What he does in there, aside from playing the lute sometimes, Varis doesn't know; he certainly shows little interest in the literature he's planted there, nor is there much else in those rooms that would help him pass the time. The child is, and will likely always be, an enigma to him. 

The servants he encounters on his way hastily dive out of the way as he walks past, his footsteps echoing off the cold cermet floor. The guard stationed at the entrance to the royal quarters opens his mouth, then thinks better and merely salutes as Varis throws open the door and marches inside. Does Zenos have no self-control whatsoever? Does he not understand the meaning of training matches? This incident is an embarrassing disgrace, and he already regrets having to spend time to make amends, which may not even fully work if the Aquoruses decide to hold it against him. 

Finally he reaches Zenos' private rooms, in the southern part of the wing where the sparse sunlight Garlemald gets shines in through the windows. Without knocking, Varis opens the door and enters. Zenos sits on his bed, legs folded under him. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself? And sit properly!“ Varis barks. Another one of his son's infuriating habits. He is diligent enough about sitting as the chair intends in public, but always reverts to more idiosyncratic ways in private. What happens in private sooner or later carries over into the public, and Varis means to put an end to it ere that happens. 

Zenos complies lethargically, slowly pulling out his legs and straightening his back until he assumes the position he should have had all along. Then he looks up at Varis from the book he obviously wasn't reading anyway, and the blank expression he carries only serves to infuriate Varis even further. 

“Do you know what you've done?“ 

“I won.“ 

“You crippled a promising young Garlean child, you fool!“ Varis bellows. “A child who might have served you well years from now on, if you hadn't ruined his chances!“ 

Not a single muscle in Zenos' face moves. He seems completely, utterly unfazed as he cocks his head just slightly and says, “It doesn't matter. He was weak. He wouldn't have been useful.“ 

“Oh, I think you'll find it matters quite a bit. Thanks to you, I'm going to have to make concessions to the Aquorus family so they won't make a fuss over their firstborn now being barred from the battlefield.“ 

“Why would they care?“ Zenos asks. “If he couldn't dodge my attack, he would not survive there even with both of his arms. If anything, they should thank me...“

“That's not how it works, can't you get that through your head? Have you learned aught at all from what I taught you?“ Almost against his will, Varis begins pacing back and fort across the soft carpet, his feet sinking into the plush carpet ever so slightly. “I told you over and over again that loyal subjects are one of the most useful resources you can have, and then you go and do this? What am I supposed to do with you, Zenos? Why are you like this?“ 

“The weak are swallowed by the strong. That's the truth of the Empire that you taught me. What's the point of a subject who can't even dodge a simple attack, then? He would just fail me in a crucial moment. I don't need someone like him, or all the other lowlives you sent to me.“ There's no resentment in Zenos' voice. It's as if he's simply stating a fact when he insults his peers, the offspring of Garlemald's elite. 

Varis thinks of the children he handpicked for the sole purpose of finding someone for Zenos who will do what Regula did for him. The highborn, the skilled, the promising, even Regula's own relatives. It doesn't surprise him that none of them were able to measure up to Zenos; he knows very well what his son is capable of, and that his is a once-in-a-generation genius, but the sheer dismissiveness Zenos displays towards those who would shine brightly if only they weren't compared to him, coupled with his emotionless attitude, ignites a fire in Varis. 

And before he knows it, his hand flies through the air and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room as Zenos is tossed aside by the impact. That, finally, gets something of a reaction out of him. His eyes widen in surprise.

Varis breathes deeply. He hasn't meant to do that. It's not the first time he's hit one of his children, but punishment should not be meted out in anger, but rational calculation—which this was not. This slap was fueled purely by his ongoing frustration with his son coupled with Regula reminding him of his own insufficiencies as a father.

And yet, it seems that this is the first time today that he's gotten through to Zenos, who's now raised a hand to his red cheek. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad decision after all. If corporal punishment is what makes his son see reason, then that is what he will use. He will make sure not to strike in anger the next time.

“You deserved that and you know it. In the future, take extra care not to injure your training partners unduly or there will be consequences. Reserve that bloodlust for your enemies and, in the future, unruly subordinates.“ 

Without waiting for a reply, he turns around and marches out of his son's rooms. 

 

 

After that day, incidents start occuring more and more often and Varis is forced to admit that what he did hasn't helped at all when repeated punishments don't improve matters. With no other recourse, he ends up cancelling all further training matches, but the damage to his and Zenos' reputation is already done. Zenos takes the beatings without much of a reaction, and short of taking it beyond bruises that will heal quickly, there's hardly anything Varis can do to punish him even more harshly.

There's nothing to it. A different approach is needed, plainly. 

 

 

“You've done well today,“ Varis says to Zenos over dinner. There has been no major misbehaviour all day, and as always, Zenos has fulfilled his obligations to the letter. It's a good day to start his new strategy of positive reinforcement. If hitting him doesn't work, then perhaps the extra attention will do the trick. 

Zenos looks up from his stew. His face carries the blank expression that he never seems to take off these days. If he's surprised by Varis speaking up, he hardly shows it. “Thank you“ is all he says before returning to his meal (which he eats, but with an obvious lack of enthusiasm, even though there is hardly any finer food to be had in Garlemald). 

“The tactics you proposed were exemplary, your tutor told me,“ Varis continues. “Had it been a real battle, you would have likely crushed your opponent. Keep it up.“

Pitiful that this even needs to be said. Zenos knows how much of a genius he is himself, and should not need the reminder that _that_ is what he should devote his energy to, not childish defiance. In the end, Varis thinks, the praise is insincere; not because it isn't true, but because it would not have been given, were his son not misbehaving. 

Misbehaving as he is right now. It does not behoove a son to stay silent when his father speaks to him. The silence grows deafening between them as Zenos' attention is seemingly commanded by his dinner and Varis waits in vain for a response. A sharp admonishment of the kind he's delivered so often lately burns on his tongue, but instead of speaking his mind he looks straight at Zenos and says in what he hopes is a measured tone, “Wouldn't you like to say anything?“

“Why are you being so nice to me?“ Zenos doesn't look up as he speaks.

That's not what Varis expected to hear, though now that he thinks about it, he doesn't know what he thought he would say in the first place. 

Why _is_ he being so nice? Because maybe that will work where everything else has failed, he wants to say, but he doesn't want Zenos to think it's all merely an act, even if that's what it is in truth. “Can't a father praise his son every once in a while?“ 

“You can do whatever you want. I just… don't understand why. It isn't as if you're telling me anything I don't already know.“ Zenos puts his spoon down, not on the holder it's meant to rest on but on the table. Varis fights the urge to snap at him for it. What is the point of hiring etiquette tutors if Zenos is simply going to ignore them? But no, that approach hasn't helped. As much as he hates it, he needs to let that display of sloppiness go. 

“I merely thought you could use a reminder that I'm… proud of you.“ 

“I see.“ That's all Zenos says.

Varis, for lack of further response, turns his attention back to his own meal. How aggravating, to think that he's putting on an act and saying things he doesn't mean all to help Zenos find the right path again, and he doesn't even have the grace to show a little gratefulness? But of course, positive reinforcement takes time and it isn't reasonable to expect results right away. 

That thought doesn't stop him from feeling a quiet simmering in his stomach.

They continue eating in silence. Zenos pushes his plate away before he's finished everything, but since he's made an effort, Varis figures he can let it slide just this once. It doesn't behoove royalty to leave behind uneaten food to be wasted, but they're in private. Nobody will see and judge them for it. 

The way Zenos slouches afterwards, however, makes his eyebrow twitch. Such a disgraceful habit. Shoulders slumping, leaning sideways—at least he's not pulling his feet under as well. No amount of punishment has had any effect on this particular lack of decorum. Before he can stop himself, he barks, “Sit _properly_! … please.“

Zenos, to his credit, still obeys him when he's reprimanded, though he doesn't do it with the diligence he should be displaying. In fact, Varis suspects he'll return to his bad posture the moment he feels he's not watched any longer. 

“You absolutely need to stop doing that, Zenos.“ Varis shakes his head. “My elder son can't be seen like this.“

“What will you do if I don't stop?“

“Why _wouldn't_ you stop?“

Zenos merely shrugs. His face is as blank as always, and Varis' carefully composed calm cracks a little. Always with the noncommittal answers, or even no answer at all. Why can't Zenos simply say what he wants and be done with the childish games? Why must he turn everything into a guessing game? 

And what is he, Varis, supposed to tell him now? He could threaten consequences for misbehaviour, but even applying said consequences hasn't helped. He could demand an answer, but Zenos has a way of weaselling out of it that he hasn't been able to crack yet. What an infuriating child! 

“If you won't tell me why you're acting in this manner,“ he says, keeping his voice calm with deliberate effort, “then I'm afraid I can't tell you what I will do either.“

“May I go now, if you don't want to talk to me any longer?“

“No. You're staying right where you are until you've told me what your problem is.“ 

Zenos nods and fixes his gaze on the table. He doesn't speak up. 

 

 

It's Varis who eventually gives in and leaves first. 

 

 

The sun is setting outside. The days in Garlemald are short, and even now, in summer, there are precious few daylight hours. Zenos knows there are lands on this star that see much longer days and that the sun never sets further north during certain parts of the year, although his trips with his father haven't taken him to any of those places. He's supposedly learnt those facts from his tactics tutors, as part of his education on factors influencing the battlefield, though in truth he's puzzled it out from his natural science lessons long before then. 

As the room grows increasingly dim, the writing he hasn't been reading becomes harder and harder to make out, but he can't be bothered to turn on the lights. There's nothing interesting in this book anyroad. One of his servants recommended it to him as an entertaining read suitable for his age, but Zenos can't fathom what about it is supposed to be enjoyable. It's a story about a boy setting out to see the world, but Zenos has been in many places on Ilsabard. None of them were in any way special or unique or worth seeing. He dimly remembers thinking otherwise, once, but he no longer understands why. 

It's too dark to decipher the letters now, and still he doesn't get up to turn on the lights. There's no reason to. He's already practiced playing the lute enough to satisfy his instructor, and has nothing else to do now that his duties of the day are fulfilled. It's so dull, so boring. And Legatus van Hydrus wants him to spend even more time like this? Why?

He misses fighting other people rather than hitting training dummies. There was no challenge in that either, but he's grown to like feeling the heft in his hand as he disarms opponents or pierces their flesh and it's just not the same if they don't bleed. If he could just do that again, he thinks he would feel less bored, and his father would come by to yell at him, which is much better than the fake praise. But his swordfighting tutor won't allow it, and he's not strong enough to go against her wishes yet. He will be, one day, but he's still too young and too weak for now.

It leaves him with more free time than he's used to having, and he's spent his day thinking of what to do with it while staring at the book he's not reading, but nothing appeals to him. With a single word he can have peers summoned, but they're all stupid. Entertainers ever vie for the favour of the royal family, but what's the joy in sitting down and watching someone throw balls into the air? Maybe someone who enjoyed the story of the boy whose name he's already forgotten would like that…

The door is flung open so harshly that it crashes into the wall. Zenos doesn't look up; there's only one person who will come in without knocking, and he knows exactly why he's here. And indeed, a moment later he hears the familiar reprimand about sitting properly. He complies, as usual, although it's becoming increasingly hard to see the point. There's always something his father admonishes him about. If it's not how he prefers to sit, it'll be about something else he thinks he's done wrong. And what's the fuss about proper posture for anyroad? Who would even dare say anything about it? They're the royal family. Their power is absolute. 

His father, meanwhile, slaps his hand against the magitek lamp. Light fills the room. It feels almost too bright after the gloom. 

“Do you know what you've done?“

His father's voice shakes from naked fury, moreso than after all the training match incidents. His face would be contorting ever so slightly now; he always tries to hide his anger, but it's not so difficult to tell. 

“Yes,“ Zenos says. “I poisoned one of your prized hunting hounds. Is it dead?“

“Is it dead, you ask?“ His father all but growls the words, as if he were a hound himself. “No, but they're putting it down as we speak, thanks to you. _Explain yourself._ “

“I ordered grapes from the kitchens, then took them with me when I went to the kennels. I told the servants that I was there on an assignment. While nobody was looking, I mixed the grapes into its food bowl. They must have told you that much. I know they saw me carry the grapes…“ Zenos pauses briefly. “Isn't it funny how a caged beast will devour anything, no matter how toxic?“

His father slaps him across the face with enough force to throw him down onto his bed. A stinging pain spreads through his cheek, which will redden very soon. He wishes he had a mirror in his room. Outside of his daily grooming he hardly looks at himself, but this, he would like to see again. 

“You know very well that I did not ask you to tell me _what_ you did. As you so rightly pointed out, I was informed of that. Pray stop wasting my time and explain,“ his father says through gritted teeth, “what made you decide to murder one of my hounds.“

Zenos doesn't have an answer to that. He doesn't know why he did it. It was an idea he had out of the blue, and he followed up on it on a whim. If he just stays silent, though, his father will refuse to say anything else until he does. Fortunately, a justification easily presents itself.

“I've been learning about poisons—the experimental blends being developed in Ala Mhigo, mainly. I wanted to try it out for myself, and this seemed like the best way to do it.“ 

“You insufferable, good for nothing, odious _brat!_ “ His father doesn't pace, this time. Instead, he reaches out and drags him back up to a sitting position by his hair. That, too, stings a little. Such a change from the dullness he's been suffering all afternoon. 

“Time and again, you step out of line, disobey, make a mess out of things and for what reason? I wouldn't know, because you keep giving me poorly thought out excuses, if you even deign to give me anything at all! I've given you everything you could have wanted or wished for, only the best of the best, and _this_ is how you repay me?“ He lets go of his hair only to slap him again. “None of your siblings act like this. _You_ are the only one this out of control, this prone to misbehaviour. If only you weren't the genius. If only it were one of the others. I would sleep easier at night if you were a dottering fool nobody would ever even consider giving any responsibility!“

His father continues ranting at him. The individual words begin swimming together soon, and much of it he's heard before, but that's fine. It's better than mundane books about adventuring boys. It burns—both the throbbing in his cheek and scalp and the words—but it's the burn of a hot fire on a cold winter day. He lets it all wash over him in comfortable silence. He doesn't move from his spot until long after his father has given up and left.

 

 

 

The village is in ruins. Its houses, once built into a river bend, are naught but smoking ruins. Charred corpses are visible through holes in the walls, posed as if they helplessly clawed at their prison's walls before they died. Those who weren't trapped haven't fared any better. The roads are littered with mangled, mutilated corpses and disembodied limbs. Standing in the middle is Zenos, his armor dripping with blood, gunblade firmly in hand. His own men keep their distance, and though their helmets hide their expression, Regula can tell by their stances that they're disturbed by what happened here. 

His friend's seventeen year old son carefully wipes the blood off his blade and slides it back into its sheath. Without turning around, he says, “Legatus van Hydrus. I was not expecting you. Whatever brings you to this place?“ 

“My scouts caught wind of a commotion...“ Regula examines the village again. He can see no survivors. Not even the young were spared. “Do explain what you're doing here. This is not your province.“

“Setting an example,“ Zenos says. “Father has caught wind of resistance brewing here, and given me the task to crush it. Such were my orders.“ 

“Crush the—do you think all of these people were part of the resistance?“

“Of course not. 'Tis quite likely that no more than a small handful were involved, if even that.“ Zenos motions for his soldiers to withdraw. They follow suit faster than Regula has ever seen. “My actions here serve as a reminder of what happens to those who defy the Empire, and to their loved ones. It broke their spirits rather more quickly than I had hoped, in truth; they weren't even willing to fight back...“ 

“And you killed even the innocents for this?“ Regula starts towards Zenos. “Don't you realise what that will do? If you show them that they will die even if they haven't done anything, they'll be all the more likely to rebel! What have they got to lose if their lives are forfeit no matter what they do?“

Zenos breathes a drawn-out sigh. “And if they do, we will kill them as well. They will learn, or they will die.“ 

Regula shakes his head. Their cause has ever required bloodshed and sacrifice, this is true, but senseless slaughter has never been what he strove for. What _Varis_ strove for. This is not what his friend ordered. Regula refuses to believe that. 

Is this truly the child he spoke to over tea all those years ago? Regula's duties have kept him away from the capital and they haven't seen each other for so long, but could he really have changed to _this_ in so short a time? What has Varis been _doing_?

“Why the distress? They were weak. What is it to you if the weak and worthless die?“ 

“There are other ways to cow unruly provinces!“

“Other, less effective ways,“ Zenos replies. “I don't understand your issue… have you not done this exact thing to beast tribes?“

“That's different.“ Regula can't believe what he's hearing. Is Zenos really equating a beast tribe—the culprit behind the immense danger that eikons pose to the world—to a peaceful Roegadyn village off the beaten path? 

Zenos finally turns around to him. The crowned helmet he wears masks his face, however. “How so? A minority of beastmen summons their gods, and we kill them all. A minority of villagers rebels, and we kill them all. I see no difference. Is this not the justice His Radiance desires?“

Zenos appears to argue, but nothing in his voice betrays that. He poses his argument with a total lack of passion. He sounds _bored_ more than anything else. So this is what the child he watched picking at his food has become, Regula thinks with a twinge of sadness. It seems that he hasn't worked himself over the edge the way the people he knew did, but this is perhaps even worse, this… callous disregard for lives that could have been saved. Should have been saved.

“The villagers don't summon eikons, that's the difference,“ he says through gritted teeth. “Whatever threat they pose pales in comparison to the beast tribes.“

Zenos' helmeted head inclines ever so slightly. A less observant man might have missed it. “Is it fear I detect in your voice, legatus? Are you afraid of the eikons?“

“They threaten the—“

“That is not what I asked. I want to know if you _fear_ them.“ Gone is the airy, disinterested aura Zenos projected just a moment ago. Now there's an intensity to his voice that Regula doesn't recall ever hearing from him. He wonders what face he makes under all the steel. 

“I've thought about what makes men march to battle… what made my great-grandfather declare a crusade on the eikons,“ Zenos continues after a moment when Regula doesn't answer. “To rid this star of its greatest menace, he said to me once. To avoid a miserable end for us all… I've never quite understood it.“ 

What in blazes is he talking about? 

“'Tis such a prosaic reason for going to war, is it not? To fight for one's survival, to live on for yet another day. And it rings hollow… so hollow. Any common beast would do it.“ He scoffs.

By now, most of Zenos' soldiers have left the ruined village. Regula's escort is still there, as he hasn't dismissed them, and they subtly cluster around him more closely. (It will nonetheless not have escaped Zenos' notice, although he doesn't react to it in any way that Regula can see.) He's not surprised they are unsettled by what their prince is saying. It borders on treason, to speak of the Emperor like this. 

“Though that fear you're showing so plainly is hardly any better, is it?“ Zenos muses. “Not a cause of righteousness, but one of fear for your own pitiful lives, for your feeble minds. It even makes you abandon your own principles, legatus, does it not? Out of fear, you condone a slaughter that you would normally be opposed to.“ He sighs. “The more I understand about people, the more they disappoint me.“ 

Perhaps moreso than ever before, Regula doesn't know what to say. Zenos, his closest friend's son, stands before him and ostensibly talks to himself about—what, exactly? The Empire's reasons for wanting to eradicate all eikons? He's clearly not expecting or even wanting an answer, content to ramble to himself in increasingly unhinged ways. 

What has he _become_ in his absence? This is more than the lifelessness Zenos has displayed before. This is callous, careless cruelty, of the kind that no one in command of others should ever display. 

When Zenos turns around without a further word and walks away to who even knows where—Regula certainly doesn't, he's not even sure how he got to this province—nobody attempts to stop him. Regula hears one of his men breathe a muted sigh of relief. For his part, he resolves to contact Varis about this; if not in person, then over remote communication. 

This situation cannot be left to stand. 

 

 

Varis is silent for a very long time after Regula finishes his report on Zenos' actions, though he makes no move to return to his work of approving military supply requests. Instead, he seems lost in thought, with his gaze fixed towards a point in the distance.

Regula, for his part, resumes his musing on what else Zenos might have done that he hasn't picked up on. It's been on his mind since he met him in that village. While he's reached out to people he trusts (as much as one can trust anyone in the Empire aside from Varis), they haven't reported anything out of the ordinary, which means they're hiding something. Regula doesn't believe for a moment that that was the first time Zenos was involved in atrocities such as what happened. 

“I am,“ Varis finally says, “aware of my son's… status. I have spies in his retinue, though he's undoubtedly ferreted them out by now.“ 

“You can't mean to let him go on like this? He locked them in their houses and burned them alive!“

Varis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Understand my position, Regula.“ He rises from his seat and begins pacing. His posture is tense; it almost always is, but today especially so. “I tried everything to get him back in line. I tried punishments, I tried rewards, I tried enlisting others. _Nothing worked._ There's nothing I would rather do than put a leash on him so he can't do any more harm than he already has, but _unfortunately_ —“ he spits the word, “—His Radiance has taken a liking to him. My hands are bound. All I can do is make use of him and mitigate the damage as much as possible. For all his—flaws, he is skilled at quelling unrest. And as he's shown a regrettable lack of interest in governing activities, this way his talents are put to use as efficiently as possible.“ 

There's an almost venomous tone to Varis' voice, in the way he clips his words and speaks a little bit louder than he normally does. Regula is taken aback by how he talks about his own son… but isn't it understandable, too? Hasn't he himself responded similarly—with less anger, but the same lack of comprehension of how someone so promising can fall so low? If Varis has truly tried everything, then he can't be blamed for feeling frustrated. 

But still, he can't let it rest like this. “Will you tell me more?“

“What good would that do now?“

“After what I've seen him do, have I not the right to know?“ Regula asks. “Please. Share it with me. What happened between the two of you?“ 

Varis shakes his head. “I don't see the point, nor do I enjoy talking about this after all the trouble I went through to cover it up. But very well, if you insist. Take a seat.“

Regula complies and pulls up a chair from the walls to sit down. Belatedly, it occurs to him that he likely could have done it to begin with, as they are alone in Varis' office, but military protocol has become second nature to him where politics have not. 

“There have been incidents,“ Varis begins. “In truth, they started even before you talked to me about Zenos, but not very long after the situation escalated. He misbehaved at every turn, embarrassing me at court and harming those around him...“ 

“Such as?“

“You have heard of Avitus bas Glaucia's death?“ 

Regula nods. News of that have spread all over the Empire. The eldest child of one of the most influential noble houses, dead in a tragic accident about a year ago—the gossips spoke of it for months. If Varis is to be believed, they had it wrong and it was no accident at all… 

“To this day I haven't been able to make him tell me what truly happened that day. From what I pieced together, he built some sort of trap that Avitus fell into, and it either worked far better than he anticipated, or his death was exactly what he wanted. I don't know which it is. Nor do I want to, frankly.“

“You think he would intentionally—“ Regula stops. It's hard to believe, hearing it like that, but after what he's seen him do, maybe it shouldn't be. A man who watched the innocent burn alive with nothing but boredom on his mind would hardly hesitate before murdering a peer, would he?

“Perhaps so,“ Varis says. “Fortunately, there was never enough evidence to accuse him of anything, and so I was able to pass it off as an accident, unpopular though it has made me with the Glaucias. I've disciplined him time and again before it got to that point, of course—spare the rod and spoil the child, as they say—but it never improved his disposition any before it culminated into… that.“

“Surely there must be a reason why he acts as he does?“ Regula has seen people with inexplicably murderous tendencies before, people who haven't had any reason to do what they did, but he doesn't want to believe Zenos is one of them. 

“I've given up on finding out. He won't tell me, and I can hardly ask around what others think, now can I? He is what he is, and knowing why won't make it any easier to deal with him. That being said, I will give him orders not to slaughter civilians without cause in the future. Sometimes he deigns to listen to me still.“

Regula nods slowly. This doesn't feel right; agreeing to do next to nothing isn't what he came here for, but how can he argue? Nothing Varis has said is strictly wrong, and he knows Zenos far better than he himself does. 

There is, however, something he can do that Varis can't. While he isn't allowed to go wherever he wants, he has more freedom than his friend does, and he can use that to keep a closer eye on Zenos. Mayhap he can find out more, or even make a difference. 

Or mayhap he will find a way to forget the hollow-eyed child he spoke to five years ago, and see Zenos for what he really is.

 

 

The soldier reporting to him about Regula van Hydrus' death in Azys Lla is shaking in his boots. Zenos stares down on him, and the lack of a response only seems to serve to frighten him even further. Pitiful, all of them, nearly wetting their breeches just from being in his presence… Pitiful and so, so boring. 

He waves the soldier away and orders the rest of the rabble filling his throne room to leave as well. He doesn't care to hear any more tripe prattling today, and while he hardly cares that van Hydrus is dead, it's worth thinking about the implication this will have on the Empire and himself a little. 

He rises from his throne and strides out of the room. The candles that used to light the castle corridors have long since been replaced by magitek lamps that bathe the stone walls in a warm light. 'Twas quite the change, to go from Garlemald's steel buildings to Ala Mhigo's omnipresent stone, but Zenos finds he doesn't particularly care, much unlike his subordinates, who never seem to stop grousing about it. His sollerets still clang on the bare floor, but nowhere near as much as they would have in a Garlean building. 

A legatus dying always causes a certain amount of disarray until their replacement has gained a firm hold over the legion, though as van Hydrus' hasn't ruled over any provinces, it will be quite a bit less chaotic than taking over van Baelsar's position has been. The VIth will need a new legatus, of course, but that hardly concerns him. His father will appoint someone he deems suitable, and Zenos will work with his choice, or perhaps not; he knows for a fact that the legatus of the IIIth has requested not to be assigned any shared duties. It's all the same to him. They're all beneath him. None of them are worthy of his attention. 

At least, he thinks as he walks past a group of soldiers flattening themselves against a wall when he passes by, van Hydrus' death spells the end of his self-appointed duty to meddle into his affairs. It's been so bothersome. Van Hydrus himself wasn't able to monitor him personally, of course, but time and again Zenos has found spies among his subordinates. What the man wanted to accomplish with them or why he didn't figure out that it was pointless after the first few times he received his spy's head via courier, Zenos still doesn't understand. 

Fortunately, he can now stop wasting his time slaughtering pathetic weaklings who thought they would escape his notice. 

Of rather more interest, however, are the circumstances under which van Hydrus died. The report he's been given scarcely mentioned details, but it seems that there was an incident during his mission to reconnoiter Azys Lla and retrieve any technology that could be useful. An incarcerated eikon breaking free, and van Hydrus sacrificing his life to bring it to heel. He'll request additional information from his father, because what he's received fails to mention the most crucial bit:

Who was the one to slay the eikon? 

The report elides what happened to it; his father's usual reticence about providing him with intel at work again, presumably. But as the majority of the VIth deployed to Azys Lla has returned with body and mind intact and he hasn't learned of any notable eikonic activity from his spies, there are few other explanations. It could have been contained in the same mechanism again, of course, but that seems unlikely. A technology that has already failed to contain the eikon and that they understood poorly at best? Nay, 'tis far more likely that someone has slain it.

Yes, Zenos is _very_ interested in hearing more about that. If his father refuses to supply him with what he needs, then he will simply employ his spy network. 

He reaches the gates leading into the castle courtyard and ignores the soldiers saluting him as he walks through them. The dry desert heat that never seems to go away in these parts greets him. His homeland's bitter cold has never held any particular appeal to him, but at times he almost misses it, especially when winds that bring no respite start whipping sand and dust all over the place, carrying it into even the narrowest nooks and crannies. Today, however, the air is still, and the sun burns down on him mercilessly. 

He begins ascending the stairs that lead up to the walls. It's by no means a short way up, but his men have learned very quickly not to complain about wall duty where he can personally hear it. For his part, it would be too much to say that he enjoys coming up here, but it's a welcome change from his throne room indeed. Looking over the lands is a little better than looking at stone walls and banners. 

On clear days such as this, one can see far from these walls. Not quite as far as Baelsar's Wall, of course, even if he directs his gaze westwards, but the Lochs stretch out below him for miles and miles, as far as the eye can see. Falling from up here would guarantee death. No mortal being could survive it. It would be a brief fall, seconds at most, and maybe someone on the ground would look up at the right time to see him fall and then shatter on the ground, where his body would come to rest with broken limbs—he directs his gaze to the northwest, where he knows Abalathia's Spine and thus Azys Lla lie. 

Somewhere in that direction, one who has slain deities lives and breathes. Mayhap it is the eikon slayer Zenos has heard about, the one who has taken out van Baelsar as well, the one responsible for his own deployment to Ala Mhigo. Eorzea, this savage land, chews up a surprising amount of legatii; van Darnus, van Baelsar, van Hydrus… 

...yae Galvus, perhaps, in the future?

His lips quirk into a rare smile. 

Only time can tell.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, I took out two scenes because they weren't working—if you want to read a little more of this, let me know. I'm not going to promise anything, but I was considering to publish them as some kind of omake, and expressing interest will make that more likely to happen.
> 
> Note: If you scroll down to the comment section, you will be greeted by several behemoth comments. You may feel intimidated by those, and that you can't possibly measure up to them. Never fear! I am here to tell you that there will be absolutely no judgement of shorter comments. Only unadulterated joy. Promise.


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